


Sometime Near the Start

by tellthemstories



Series: Waking up to ash and dust [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Christmas fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 03:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2835788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tellthemstories/pseuds/tellthemstories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He watches as Enjolras turns the calendar over to December, trails his fingertips along the days and weeks and then halt. Grantaire frowns, counting ahead. He’s lost track of time, it seems pointless to keep track of the date, when all that matters is making it from one day to the next. It takes him a moment to catch up, to work out the date from the last time he saw Enjolras mark it, and then he realises.</p><p>"It’s nearly Christmas."</p><p>[A prequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2511416/chapters/5578283">After the End</a>. You'll probably need to read that, before this.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometime Near the Start

They’re in a house in Rouen when Grantaire realises.

Together, he and Enjolras have pushed the remaining furniture to the edges of the main room, away from the fireplace, creating a barrier to keep the heat in and potential threats out. They’re used to this now, a familiar routine whenever they find somewhere to set up camp for the night. Their sleeping bags are stretched across the floor, along with some blankets Courfeyrac found in another room.

There are two entrances to the room. One from the entrance hall and another which leads into the kitchen at the back of the house. A window looks out on the street, the glass surprisingly still in tact. Always have more than one exit.

They’d learned that quickly.

Courfeyrac himself is outside, getting some fresh air. He still hasn’t put the baseball bat down.

Grantaire’s been with Enjolras long enough now that he’s starting to get used to his habits, his quirks. Some things are still a mystery - what Enjolras was doing in Calais when Grantaire first found him, where the long, thin scar on the back of his leg is from - but others have become the norm.

Which is why he doesn’t think twice when he sees Enjolras looking at the calendar still hooked up on the wall. Enjolras has a thing about calendars. Whenever they find a place with one, he marks the days, turns it over to the next month if he has to, grounds himself back in reality.

Grantaire isn’t sure what he’s going to do when they come to the end of the year, and all the calendars will go out of date.

He watches as Enjolras turns the calendar over to December, trails his fingertips along the days and weeks and then halt. Grantaire frowns, counting ahead. He’s lost track of time, it seems pointless to keep track of the date, when all that matters is making it from one day to the next. It takes him a moment to catch up, to work out the date from the last time he saw Enjolras mark it, and then he realises.

"It’s nearly Christmas."

Enjolras jumps at the sound of his voice, his hand slipping away from the calendar as he turns to look at him. “Ten days,” he agrees. There’s something in the tone of his voice.

"Happy Advent?" Grantaire asks, trying for something to lighten the mood, but as always with Enjolras, it falls flat.

"No need to celebrate, now," Enjolras says, turning back to the calendar to finish marking off the days with the soot on his finger from the fireplace. "Funny how some traditions can completely disappear."

"Well, the world did end.”

"People didn’t."

Grantaire opens his mouth to reply, but it’s at that moment that Courfeyrac walks back into the room, fingers tight around the handle of his baseball bat. It still makes Grantaire feel dread, seeing it. He can’t get the image of the fear in Courfeyrac’s eyes out of his mind.

Courfeyrac looks past him at Enjolras, saying, “I’ll take the first watch.”

It makes Grantaire frown. Enjolras beats him to reply, “I’ll stay with you.”

Courfeyrac tightens his grip on the baseball bat, shakes his head. “No,” he says, “I want to do this myself. You both can’t-- I need to do this for myself.”

Ever since they rescued Courfeyrac, just over a month ago, they’ve been keeping an eye on him. One of them always takes a watch with him, even though it’s far less efficient. Courfeyrac, skittish and restless, unable to fully trust them even as his eyes say that he really wants to. He’s started to calm, recently.

Grantaire becomes aware of Enjolras looking to him for guidance, wonders when he became the voice of reason. He thinks it through. “Okay,” he says.

Courfeyrac offers him a brief, surprised smile. It’s a flash of something that must have once been charming. Behind the stubble and the long hair, it’s clear that he must have good looks.

Enjolras doesn’t look too happy with the decision, but he doesn’t argue with it. Not in front of Courfeyrac, anyway.

It’s a few hours later when Grantaire thinks he’s about to bring it up. Enjolras’s shoulders tense, anyway, as he sits on the floor, wrapped up in his sleeping bag and blanket and watching the fire flicker in the grate. It had taken Grantaire what felt like forever to light it, trying to remember boy scout skills he had never once thought would be useful.

He’s tired, and he just wants to sleep, and so he attempts to prevent the argument he knows Enjolras is gearing himself up for by saying, “So, Christmas, huh?”

Enjolras visibly startles, the tension fleeing from his shoulders in surprise. “What?”

"You were counting down the days on the calendar."

"No I wasn’t," Enjolras replies, in a voice that says he very definitely was. He’s careful not to look Grantaire in the eye. "I was just seeing what date it is."

"Right," Grantaire replies. "Sure."

"And what if I was?" Enjolras asks a beat later, turning sharply. The ferocity in his gaze startles Grantaire as Enjolras continues, "So what? I’m not allowed to miss things? Even Christmas? It’s true it wasn’t the best holiday of the year - I didn’t agree with the commercialism, and it’s not like anyone even cared for the meaning of it, that all got diluted and lost, and it’s pagan anyway, and—"

"Enjolras." Grantaire reaches out to put a hand on his arm to still him, hesitates with it hovering just over his elbow. He hasn’t purposefully touched Enjolras in a long time, not since they first met.

Enjolras had been wild, then, unwilling to trust. He had snarled at Grantaire. Calming him had felt like coaxing an animal in from the cold.

Grantaire’s heart aches to touch him, to reassure him, to remind him that the world isn’t as harsh and brittle as it seems. But he also knows he’s not the person to do that, that Enjolras wouldn’t welcome it from him. He wonders what would have happened, if Enjolras hadn’t been injured when they met, if he hadn’t been desperate and needed someone else.

Enjolras takes in a breath, looking down at where Grantaire’s hand hovers over his arm. He looks up, eyes a shadowed blue in the half-light, and Grantaire curls his hand into a fist, pulling it back to rest on his own knee instead.

"It’s okay to miss stuff from before," Grantaire says carefully, "Past comforts, things we used to do. We’re only human. And, Christ, look at what we’ve been through - what the world has been through.”

Enjolras shakes his head, stubborn. “That - that was before. It’s gone. We can’t keep thinking about that time. We have to — to make the most of what we have.”

He looks across at Grantaire, but Grantaire’s looking down at the fist he made of his hand. He doesn’t think he’s brave enough to approach the world the way Enjolras does, to forge ahead in the search of something better. To try and find a way to be happy with what they have.

He just wants to survive.

And he knows, deep down, that until he met Enjolras he hadn’t even wanted that. It had seemed like some sort of joke the universe was playing on him, letting him live whilst so many died, and then Enjolras had appeared, pissed off and angry and righteous, unimpressed by Grantaire but apparently unwilling to let him go, and suddenly Grantaire’s life had gained purpose.

Grantaire is still waiting for the punchline.

"It’s nothing," Enjolras says, firm, an end to the conversation. For once, Grantaire decides to let it lie, even when it’s clear there’s something more.

He’s just closed his eyes, snuggling down under his own sleeping bag and blanket when he hears Enjolras take a breath. “Courfeyrac—”

"Not talking about it," Grantaire replies, and turns over so his back is to Enjolras.

He expects resistance, expects a lecture about how Courfeyrac isn’t ready, or even to hear Enjolras get to his feet to go and join him on the watch outside, but all he hears in the shell of an empty room is the crackle of the fire, Enjolras’s breathing.

Grantaire pulls the blanket closer, and falls asleep.

\- - - -

Courfeyrac survives his first watch alone, and it’s when Grantaire’s on his own shift, that he gets the idea.

Having a full-on Christmas is impossible, there’s no way they would be able to get all the resources needed.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t do something.

He’s so busy thinking that he forgets to wake Enjolras for his next watch, stays awake straight through until the dawning morning light. Now it’s winter, it’s staying darker for longer, which means there’s more chance of trouble hiding in shadows.

Even so, Grantaire’s thoughts are elsewhere, planning ahead to what he’s going to do, when a hand lands on his shoulder.

"Shit," he swears, whirling around on the spot and scrambling to his feet, already pulling out his gun. His hands, numb from the cold from sitting outside, fumble, and Enjolras gets a hand fisted in the front of his top.

"What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?" demands Enjolras. He’s furious. He drags Grantaire across the space between them to glare at him.

"Um," says Grantaire, his voice croaky from not speaking for several hours. "I was—"

"Why didn’t you wake me up?"

"What? Oh. I was distracted, I—"

"Distracted?" Enjolras hisses, "What if someone tried to attack us? If something came for us? If—"

"Jesus Christ, calm down," Grantaire replies, finally regaining enough sense to pull back, away from Enjolras. Enjolras’s grip holds strong and then releases him suddenly, causing Grantaire to stumble backwards a few steps. "And a good morning to you t—"

Enjolras growls, low, in his throat.

Grantaire’s words die on his tongue.

"Don’t ever do that again," Enjolras says. "Get inside and get your stuff. We’re moving on."

Grantaire knows better than to argue, when Enjolras is in a foul mood like this, just steps around him back into the house, to where Courfeyrac is rolling up his own sleeping bag. He looks up as Grantaire walks in, sharp and tense, then relaxes when he recognises him, and raises an eyebrow in question.

"So Enjolras clearly woke up on the wrong side of the bed," Grantaire mutters, and grabs his sleeping bag.

"He was fine until he realised what time it was," Courfeyrac replies.

"Yeah, I know," Grantaire replies, waving a hand through the air, "And then he was pissed I failed at my watch and got distracted and didn’t wake him for his. He’s already yelled at me for it."

"I don’t think — he was worried," replies Courfeyrac, frowning, but by then Grantaire’s got his sleeping bag strapped onto his bag, and is slinging it over his shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah, worried my ineptitude would get us all killed, I know. I’m going to check the kitchen for any supplies we missed last night. Tell Enjolras I’ll be out in a few minutes."

Time alone in the kitchen gives him space to breathe, to think. Enjolras interrupted him in the middle of his planning, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to give up on the idea. The house they’re staying in was clearly ransacked a while ago, when everything had started to go wrong, and then after, when the first looters had started looking for supplies. Grantaire knows there’s nothing worth looking for, is just going through the motion as he opens and closes drawers, something to keep his mind and hands occupied as he waits for Enjolras to calm down.

He almost misses the glint of metal, isn’t really paying any attention at all until it shines in the corner of one drawer. He pauses and frowns, and with a sharp tug pulls the drawer out completely. Pushed right to the back, under one of those plastic cutlery sorters, is a butter knife.

Completely and utterly useless.

Grantaire is in the process of putting the drawer back on its runners when the thought occurs to him, when he thinks about all the knives which are missing. Someone clearly thought they were of use, despite their size.

Guns aren’t going to last forever, Grantaire thinks.

Setting his index finger down on the blade, he spins the knife around in a circle, and wonders.

\- - - -

"You want to go to Notre Dame," Enjolras says, flat.

Next to him, Courfeyrac looks like he’s trying hard not to smile. He’s been getting more and more open, like his real self - or at least, what Grantaire assumes is his real self - ever since they started letting him take the watches. The trust seems to have given him confidence, though he’s still always carrying his bat.

"Yep," says Grantaire.

He has a whole speech worked out for this, has rehearsed it several times in his mind.

Enjolras’s eyes narrow slightly.

Grantaire waits.

"Okay."

Grantaire blinks. “What?”

Enjolras shrugs and says, “You want to,” like it’s a good enough reason. Grantaire looks across to Courfeyrac, stunned.

"We’ve got all the time in the world, right?" asks Courfeyrac. "Plus, it’s not like there will be a queue. Or tourists." He gives another one of those almost-charming smiles. Grantaire wants to hug him. Dress him in better clothes. Look after him and hurt whoever it was who made him so introverted.

"Okay," Grantaire says, "Right, well. Okay then."

None of his plans have taken this into account. He isn’t quite sure what to do, except turn and head in the direction of the cathedral. Courfeyrac and Enjolras fall into step behind him, talking in low voices. The more Courfeyrac opens up, the more Enjolras talks to him, choosing to walk with him instead of Grantaire.

Grantaire is trying not to feel jealous, knows it’s stupid to, focuses instead on the goal ahead and the cathedral.

Their eventual aim is to get to the CHU de Rouen, but they all seem to be, without speaking about it, dragging their heels. Grantaire doesn’t know what to expect, when they make it to the hospital. He and Enjolras have avoided them so far, breaking their way into pharmacies and doctors clinics for supplies, but they’re running thin, and it’s time they got some higher-quality stuff.

But what will be waiting for them at the hospital, in a world wracked by a virus that killed half the population, they don’t know.

And so they go to Notre Dame instead.

Grantaire’s never been here before, though he’s always wanted to. He stands at the entrance and just looks up, tries to take in the gothic splendor of it all. Part of him hoped that it would still be intact, still perfect, an island amidst the storm; too creepy and imposing to attract those who survived.

He’s wrong.

One of the two doors in the centre hangs open, half on its hinges. Beyond, the cathedral is plunged into the darkness of shadows and looming walls, the pews overturned like a barricade. Grantaire enters first, his feet crunching on glass from one of the smashed stained-glass windows, a riot of colour.

Overhead there’s a flutter of wings, a bird taking flight through the shattered dome above.

Abruptly, Grantaire becomes aware of Enjolras, stood at his side.

Dead bodies are strewn all around, people who came for some sort of salvation, and never found it. Dried blood stains the tiled floor to black. Courfeyrac steps around one to reach up to one of the overhead black metal sconces, the candles long-since stolen by looters.

Enjolras takes a breath to say something, but Grantaire just walks on ahead, past the pews, the splintered wood. His footsteps echo back at him, cavernous. When he reaches the altar he pauses, looking up at something which had once been so grand and beautiful.

He’s never before missed the world.

When he puts his hand down on the lectern, his fingers come away stained with dust. Distantly, he’s aware of Courfeyrac and Enjolras moving through the cathedral behind him, taking in the destruction of it all. It feels like they’re the only three people in the world.

Enjolras and Courfeyrac’s footsteps serve to remind him why he came here, and so he drops to his knees, brushing his fingers through the debris on the floor. The shattered glass twinkles in the beams of sun shining through the broken window murals, fracturing. He curls his fingers around a few shards, and then puts them into his pockets as he straightens again to stand.

When he turns around, it’s to find Enjolras standing in the middle of what would have once been the aisle. He looks uncomfortable. This is clearly not a place he ever wanted to come and yet he has, because Grantaire asked.

"Thank you," Grantaire says, when he’s crossed the room again to stand next with him.

Enjolras blinks as if drawing himself out of deep thought, turns his head towards him as he says, “I never really saw the point of this kind of wealth. Surely it could have been better spent on people. But destroying it.. That seems wrong.”

Grantaire half-smiles, and again has that urge to touch Enjolras, to nudge his shoulder with his own to say it’s okay. Instead, he curls his fingers around the shards of glass in his pockets. “It’s human nature. Take away rules and we all become rabid. Our first instinct is always to destroy.”

Enjolras frowns at that.

From across the room Courfeyrac calls, “Hey, I found some candle stubs.”

There’s little else useful in the rubble, just a thick winter jacket they take from one of the dead bodies. Courfeyrac and Enjolras leave first, discussing something as they walk away. They leave Notre Dame almost exactly as they found it, a graveyard to the past.

Grantaire halts just inside the door, glances back. Above them, the gargoyles look on, monstrous. The building will stand for years, he thinks, but what it once held, the inside, the beauty, is gone. A memory, fading into ruins.

He closes the door again as best he can, and joins Courfeyrac and Enjolras.

\- - - -

Next on Grantaire’s list is a Home Department store.

“We need to stock up on weapons,” he pitches his idea to Enjolras, “And thicker sleeping bags for the winter. A thermos would be nice. Or those pellet things to clear out water. Some high energy food bars.”

“Stores that sell those kind of things were the first places hit,” Enjolras replies, frowning. They’ve had this conversation before. They both agreed to keep far away. “There won’t be any of that stuff left.”

Grantaire is fully aware of that, but can’t tell Enjolras his real reason for wanting to go, and so instead he just says, “But how do you know?”

“Not to mention,” Enjolras continues, as if he never even spoke, “They’re the most dangerous. We don’t know what kind of people we’ll run into there, desperate people, ruthless people.”

Courfeyrac visibly blanches. “Is this a vote? If it’s a vote, I vote no,” he says, “No going into potentially dangerous situations.”

Grantaire’s stomach sinks at his words, and not just because his plan has been foiled, but because for a moment he totally forgot what Courfeyrac has just come out of. Holing up in a Service Station, one of the places people were most likely to target for supplies, he has seen a whole lot of violence he probably does not want to relive.

Grantaire glances across at the child’s baseball bat in Courfeyrac’s hand, his knuckles white, then says, “Okay, no. The store is out. We’ll make do with what we have.”

\- - - -

The frost settles in two days later, the temperature plummeting to freezing.

They hole up in another abandoned house, finding a suitable one not too far from CHU. The windows on the second floor are still intact, and there are no dead bodies of families, who decided to take themselves out of the world before it got worse.

Someone has been here before them, has left notes scratched into one of the walls about the hospital, saying that they are on their way there, following a rumour of a doctor offering help to those in need. The notes are signed with two names, a man and a woman. Grantaire watches Courfeyrac trace them, and wonders who he’s lost.

On the floor next to the wall with the note is a radio, the old kind, with the twisting knobs and extendable aerial. Enjolras’s expression lights up when he sees it, a possible connection to others. Grantaire leaves him investigating it, frowning in concentration and twiddling knobs to the occasional burst of static, as he goes to explore the rest of the house.

Grantaire hates houses.

He wishes they were back outside the city, that they were away from the looming buildings and creaking structures. Al those places where people and threats could be hiding. With open land around, it’s possible to see a threat coming. In a house, they won’t know what bad thing is going to happen until it’s in the building with them. The thought alone sends a shiver down his spine.

But the decision had been taken away from him by Courfeyrac and Enjolras. Winter is sweeping in, and they can very easily die of the cold if they aren’t somewhere fortifiable, should the weather turn. Snow isn’t always guaranteed at this time of year - or at least, it hadn’t been, once - but the bombs fucked with the atmosphere, burned the sun to red through a haze and caused falls of acid rain, so who even knows what cold weather will bring?

He heads into the kitchen first, a place ransacked months or even weeks ago by looters. There’s nothing of value left, nothing to help them survive, but tucked away at the back of one of the cupboards is a dusty old bottle of red wine.

It’s a screw top and some sort of rust has set in, gluing it shut. Grantaire tries to pry the top open first with his knife, then wraps his hand around the fabric of an old tea towel, trying to use the friction to get a grip. When he feels it start to loosen he grits his teeth in a grin, and the muscles of his arm pull tight as he gives it one more yank.

The top clatters into the sink as he lifts the bottle to his nose, taking a sniff. It smells alright.. Best if he takes a swig to check.

He’s just tipped the bottle back, his lips pressed to the neck when he hears a voice saying, “Grantaire?”

It’s too late not to finish the drink and so he does, swallowing around what feels like a lump in his throat then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Enjolras stands in the doorway, watching him. His expression is disappointed, unimpressed.

“I got the radio to work,” he says, voice flat. “We picked up a broadcast from CHU. There’s a doctor there called Joly putting out a frequency, however it’s impossible to tell when it was made, or if he’s still there. When the weather clears, we’ve decided to go and check it out.”

We, Grantaire thinks dimly. A few months ago, ‘we’ had been just himself and Enjolras. Now it was, apparently, Enjolras and Courfeyrac.

Enjolras looks again at the bottle of wine. His lips pull tight at the corners, and then he turns on his heel, heading back into the living room. Grantaire wants to run after him, wants to shout, “It’s not what it looks like!” but knows that it won’t get him anywhere. So instead, he rescues the top from the sink and screws it back on, adding the bottle to his bag, next to the shattered pieces of glass from Notre Dame.

\- - - -

Grantaire and Courfeyrac quickly learn that Enjolras doesn’t like the cold. It makes him sulky, “Like a disgruntled cat,” Grantaire says in an aside to Courfeyrac, and almost gets a laugh for his effort.

It’s not started to snow yet, but there are puddles of ice stretched thin across the pavement outside. Their breath becomes visible, when they’re not near the fire in the living room.

Enjolras manages to find a calendar from somewhere and sits, wrapped up in his sleeping bag so only his nose and a few curls of hair are visible, as he tears off the sheets so it shows the correct date, the 21st of December.

Grantaire is restless for another reason entirely; he hates staying in one place for too long. He and Enjolras have been prickly towards each other, more likely to snap and snipe than anything else, Courfeyrac the reluctant mediator. More often than not, Grantaire keeps looking for excuses to be somewhere else, and he makes one now.

He’s explored every part of the house, apart from one.

He takes the staircase to the second floor and then the third, following his memory to something he’d seen on his last exploration. When he reaches the the third floor he finds himself squinting, wishing he’d brought a candle up with him. They still have the ones Courfeyrac found in Notre Dame, but are saving them for when they’re needed most. He doesn’t think Enjolras is feeling magnanimous enough right now to let him have one.

He has to do his searching from memory and touch alone, reaching above his head for something he could very easily miss.

When his fingers curl around the string he nearly lets out a cheer.

He tugs hard instead, and the ladders come down with a creak.The noise makes him wince, glancing over his shoulder to see if Courfeyrac or Enjolras heard, but the faint murmur of their voices is the only thing he can hear, indistinct where they rise from the first floor.

Taking a breath, he begins climbing the steps into the attic.

In the attic, he’s completely in darkness, with not even windows to help him out. It’s a little unnerving, but he forces himself to stay, to start looking, his arms outstretched for any boxes. He’s looking for the Christmas decorations, any decorations, things he can use to cheer Enjolras up. It’s unlikely that people would steal them from a house, right?

His knee hits a low cardboard box and he almost stumbles, using one edge to catch himself. Carefully, he lowers himself to his knees next to the box, and pulls the lid back. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness now, he can just about make out the shape of more boxes inside, old board games. Nothing that will be of use.

He pushes the main box holding them away, and something across the attic rattles when they connect. Frowning, Grantaire edges his way over, to a stack of yet more odds and ends. He trails his fingers over a few photo frames, old school books, a box of children’s clothes, and then nearly cuts himself on the edge of the next.

"No way," he breathes, amazed, as he pulls the sword over to him.

Who the fuck keeps a sword in the attic of their house?

He turns around, his intention being to take a swing with it, when his foot goes down lower than it should. There’s a gut-wrenching crack, the sound of wood snapping, and then the floor collapses underneath him.

He turns his body into the fall as best he can, screwing his eyes shut. The sword falls from his grasp, clattering away in the dust that rises, and then with an awful bang he lands, hard, on his feet. Pain shoots up and gravity surges upwards as he falls back onto his tailbone with a second loud bang.

Seconds later there are feet pounding on the staircase; Enjolras emerges with his gun held out, looking terrified. Courfeyrac is on his heels, but Grantaire can’t make out his expression, as another wave of pain rushes over his body, forcing him to close his eyes as he hisses in a breath.

"The fuck,” he hears Enjolras say, as if from a distance.

Hands come to rest on his shoulders, gripping tonight, and for a brief, hysterical moment Grantaire thinks Enjolras is going to hug him, before he starts bodily shaking him instead. “What the hell are you playing at?” Enjolras demands, furious. “Why were you in the attic?”

"I—" Grantaire starts to say, and loses his voice as the world swims around him.

It doesn’t seem to matter anyway, as Enjolras continues to yell, “You could have died! And for what? Why are you so - so stupid,” he bites the last word out, frustrated.

Grantaire bats ineffectually at the hands on his shoulders, as sense starts to reassert itself. “None of your — none of your business,” he manages to grit out, “Stop shaking me!”

"No," Enjolras growls, and does. His hands stay on Grantaire’s shoulders, fingers digging in as if to keep him grounded.

"I was just looking for something," Grantaire says weakly, "It’s nothing."

Courfeyrac reaches past Enjolras to prise his fingers from Grantaire’s shoulders carefully, saying, “Violently shaking someone who just fell through the ceiling probably isn’t a good idea, Enjolras.”

Enjolras drops his hands suddenly, as if burned.

Courfeyrac squeezes Grantaire’s shoulders instead, his touch gentle.  There’s warmth in his expression, that flash of kindness that had drawn Grantaire to him, even when Courfeyrac was threatening to kill them both.  “Are you alright?” he asks, genuine.

"Yeah," Grantaire replies, as his head finally starts to clear. "I think so."

He struggles up onto his feet from the ground, various parts of his body aching, but not protesting. Nothing feels broken, though he’s sure he’s going to be heavily bruised come tomorrow. He’s mostly concerned with the sword, which appears to have disappeared under the snapped bits of stone and wood from the hole in the attic. That, or it’s still in the attic somewhere, lost in the darkness.

"Don’t ever do that again," Enjolras says, short, and heads down the stairs back to the first floor.

Looking at the broken ladder to the attic, Grantaire replies, “Wasn’t planning on it,” but Enjolras is already gone.

\- - - -

He decides attics are probably off-limits after that.

Not that he gets a chance to investigate again, as Enjolras abruptly announces that they’re moving elsewhere. “If part of the place collapsed, so can the rest,” he explains shortly, and then makes a good job of ignoring Grantaire completely in favour of discussing with Courfeyrac the possible places to camp out that are still on their way to CHU.

Courfeyrac wears the winter coat they took from one of the bodies in Notre Dame. It has a thicker hood than his last one, he’s able to tuck his long hair under it, but even with extra padded layers, it’s clear he’s freezing. They all are. Enjolras’s hands shake where he holds the map they stole from a bookstore a while back. It’s difficult to trust the roads and streets on it; in the early days of the wars the police threw up roadblocks to stop rioting and looting. Some places were set on fire, and buildings collapsed. Rouen escaped most of the real fighting, but here are still battle scars all around.

Cars litter the roads, abandoned. Some of their doors are pulled open, others are wedged shut. Ahead of them a fox runs out from the darkness, hisses and disappears again without coming close. Grantaire’s become good at ignoring the bodies.

When they find a place to stay it’s getting dark, Grantaire can no longer feel the tips of his fingers. They hole up on the second floor around a fire, Grantaire offers to get the kindling they will need. They had passed a small green area on their way - or well, what passed as green, these days.

The snow begins to fall when he’s out searching for more wood for the fire. It falls from the bruise-purple sky like a cloud, ominous, covering the nearby Abbey of St-Quen. Ravens sit on the top of its spires, staring down at him as moonlight shows.

“Yeah, I know,” Grantaire mutters, “Chopping down branches from trees for my own benefit, destroying nature. How awful.”

Unfortunately, just getting wood isn’t enough. He’d offered to get the kindling for a reason; when they’d been walking over, he’d seen a cherry tree, as unbelievable as it is. By the time he’s crossed the lawn from the Abbey to reach it, the snow has already completely covered the ground. The flurries whirl around his face as he lifts the axe they stole from someone’s shed for this purpose, making him miss on his first two swings.

On the third he connects with the branch, and then someone’s fist connects with the back of his head.

“Jesus fuck,” swears Grantaire, trying to turn his body as he falls. The person is on him in seconds, a heavy mass of limbs that’s tearing his bag from his shoulders and digging knees into his sides.

Grantaire struggles, trying to get his hands up to shove the person away, but can’t find purchase on the slippery, snow-covered ground, his body half-twisted in the wrong direction. Slush seeps into the back of his clothes, chilling him to the bone. “Get the hell off me!”

“Give me your stuff,” growls the person - a man? maybe? - in reply, and finally yanks the bag from Grantaire’s shoulders.  

“No--” says Grantaire, reaching after it. Everything he’s collected is in there.

The man swings an arm out to pin him down to the ground again, but now Grantaire’s desperate, and desperation allows him to tighten his grip on the axe, arcing his arm around into the man above him. The man realises with a shocked intake of breath, throwing himself backwards to avoid the blow, which just glances off his shoulder.

The man lets out a guttural yell and lunges for him, but Grantaire’s managed to scramble backwards, to get his feet purchase on the ground despite the snow. He should reach for his gun, he tries to, but his gloved fingers can’t find the trigger or the safety, refuse to cooperate.

In desperation, Grantaire throws himself to the side, using the purchase of his feet on the ground to half stumble to his feet in the process. He gives up on his gun and swings the axe around instead, saying, “Seriously, don’t make me -- I don’t want to--”

But the man is furious. There are hints of frostbite on the tip of his nose, turning black. His eyes are wild. Like Enjolras’s had been, so long ago, but without the humanity. His cheeks are sunken, he’s starving. “Please,” Grantaire says.

It has no effect.

The man lunges.

Grantaire swings the axe.

It connects with a sickening thunk, cleaving through skin and muscle both. Blood sprays across the snow, warm and wet. Grantaire lets go of the axe and the man topples backwards, gurgling. He reaches up to the axe embedded in his neck, and then all life flees from his expression entirely. He lands heavily, his face turned into the snow.

Distantly, part of Grantaire’s brain thinks that they really, really need to stop relying on guns. If he hadn’t had the axe with him -- he forces the thought down, along with the bile takes a step towards the man, and then falters. He doesn’t want to take the axe out of his body.

Enjolras will be so angry with him, they need the axe for wood - but he can’t.

He closes his eyes, takes a few deep breaths, and then steps around the body to get the branch which he had managed to chop down from the cherry tree. He stuffs it into his bag with the wine and the shattered glass, and practically stumbles back to the house.

\- - - -

Enjolras is waiting for him in the doorway, looking furious. “Where have you--” he starts to say, and then cuts himself off, frowning. His sharp gaze captures Grantaire’s dishevelled appearance, the lack of the axe, the blood stains. “Shit.”

He reaches forward for Grantaire, who lets himself be pulled into the house. Enjolras lets go of him to shove the cabinet back in front of the door to keep it blocked, then tugs Grantaire into the main room by the sleeve of his coat. He manhandles him down into a sitting position in front of the fire, then sits down opposite him, legs crossed, and says, “What do you need?”

Not “How are you?” or “What happened?” but “What do you need?”

Grantaire cracks. “You.”

An expression flits across Enjolras’s face briefly, surprise, and then he nods. Grantaire can’t make up the effort to be worried about what he just said, to care about the rejection that he knows is coming. All he can see is the man he just killed, a man who was just trying to get what he needed to survive. Were they so different?

Enjolras takes the bag from his shoulders, puts it down near the fire, then wraps him in a blanket and sleeping bag, careful not to properly touch him. He works methodically, without speaking, wrapping Grantaire up in layer upon layer until he can no longer feel the cold.

“I killed someone,” Grantaire says finally, quietly.

Enjolras’s hands pause for a second, and then continue to tuck the blanket around him. He pulls Grantaire down so he’s lying on the floor nearest the fire, then stretches out next to him. They always sleep side-by-side, next to each other, have done ever since they first met, but usually there’s a respectable distance between them, room to breathe. This time Enjolras closes the distance, curls his body so they could almost be touching, if Grantaire was brave enough to reach out.

Enjolras knows better than to try and reassure him. It’s not the first person either of them have had to hurt, in the name of survival. Instead, he just watches Grantaire carefully, not saying anything, and after a while Grantaire lets himself fall asleep.

\- - - -

Enjolras is gone when Grantaire wakes up on Christmas Eve. He and Courfeyrac must have decided to let Grantaire sleep rather than waking him for a watch. Enjolras’s blankets are still stretched out on the ground next to him, a faint depression in the covers where he must have lay, his body angled towards Grantaire’s.

The window outside shows a world covered in snow, the storm finally having settled down, but not over. There’s a good few inches on the ground, almost a foot, and everything looks almost ethereal. Snow flurries twirl through the air, catching on the wind and blowing further.

Grantaire pulls the cherry branches from his bag, shoves them into the fireplace and sprinkles them with wine. It won’t be quite the same as an actual Yule Log, but its close, and then he rolls to his feet and goes searching for the others.

The snow means they’re technically housebound; some time in the night Enjolras and Courfeyrac made the decision that it was probably safer for them to stay here and wait it out, rather than to go out into the snow. The storm can come again, thicker this time, and the current level meant that they had no way of knowing what was underfoot. A slip, trip or fall could be dangerous these days, without the correct medical attention.

Courfeyrac had the foresight to get a pack of cards for them whilst raiding a store a few weeks back, brings them out now and shows them how to play poker. Grantaire already knows, he just isn’t very good, but Enjolras is absolutely hopeless.

More than once, Grantaire has to hide a grin behind his cards as Enjolras frowns and pouts and loses again.

Later that evening Grantaire finds the house plant, wilting and failing on the windowsill in one of the rooms on the top floor of the house. He’d initially gone looking for another attic in the hopes of finding some Christmas decorations, but this house doesn’t have one. The house plant isn’t the best - it has very definitely seen better days - but it’ll do for something else he has in mind.

He spends the majority of that evening hammering holes into the shards of glass he got from Notre Dame, using a nail from a picture frame and the heel of his boot, then threading them with bits of string he tears from an old rug on the bedroom floor. He comes downstairs in time to see Courfeyrac light the fire, watches in amusement as the smell of the burning wood reaches Enjolras.

Enjolras sits up straight on the floor, eyes wide, and says, “Cherry wood.”

“No,” says Courfeyrac, “That’s definitely wine.”

“Wine,” Enjolras repeats, and then turns sharply to look at Grantaire, in the doorway.

Grantaire shrugs, and leans one shoulder against the door frame. “Happened across some things on our journeys. I figured it was only fitting.”

There’s a faint blush to Enjolras’s cheeks, from the fire or his realisation, it’s hard to tell. Next to him Courfeyrac looks stunned, and then inordinately happy, as he says slyly, “Never would have thought you were a romantic.”

“What?” demands Grantaire, tearing his eyes away from Enjolras’s, and Courfeyrac actually starts to laugh.

“So where’s the rest of it?” Courfeyrac asks, and for a moment Grantaire panics before realising he means the wine.

“In my bag.”

“Get it out then. ‘Tis the season, and all that.”

Grantaire does.

\- - - -

When Enjolras’s stolen calendar reads 25th December the snow finally stops, one last flurry settling like a blanket around them, and the world goes still.

It’s like someone took a breath and forgot to exhale.

Grantaire takes the opportunity to go outside, climbs his way up onto the roof of the adjacent house through one of their windows. This high up gives him a view out across the city, covered in white. The imperfections and the destruction all gone, hidden.

He has no idea how long he’s there, doesn’t really think about time at all until there’s scraping at the edge of the roof and then Enjolras appears, climbing deftly.

"I’m not here to argue," Enjolras says immediately, at the same time Grantaire says, "I don’t want to argue."

Enjolras hesitates for a second, and then comes to sit down next to him, a respectful distance away, careful to make sure they’re not touching, as always.

"Sorry," Enjolras says, at the same time Grantaire says, "Look, about the—" then cuts himself off.

"Wait, what?" Grantaire asks.

Enjolras frowns at him and says, “You heard me. I’m sorry. Just. I thought it needed saying. I’m aware that sometimes I’m a bit too harsh with you, that I don’t always think the best of you.” He’s clearly been talking to Courfeyrac, there’s no way Enjolras would have come to this conclusion on his own. “But I just don’t understand you, or some of the things you do,” he makes a frustrated sound.

"I’ll try and be less frustrating?" Grantaire asks, bewildered.

"That’s not what I meant. I just… take the apology. Please. I mean it."

Grantaire bites his tongue to stop himself from saying anything that might ruin the moment. It’s the closest they’ve come to a truce in a while. Enjolras seems calm, relaxed, even. He’s been passive-aggressive for days, restless ever since the cold weather settled in, frustrated that they’ve not been able to get to CHU and this Joly guy faster.

Grantaire looks across at him carefully, and then gets to his feet. “Wait right here.”

"What?"

"Do not move."

Grantaire’s back over the ledge of the roof in seconds, sliding through the open window into the house. He finds the plant and stained glass where he left them, takes a moment to get them in order before heading for the window again.

In the hallway he almost walks straight into Courfeyrac, who steadies him with a hand on his arm, then stares at the plant he’s holding.

"Um," says Grantaire.

Courfeyrac arches an eyebrow at him, and Grantaire says, a little helplessly, “Christmas.”

"Ah," Courfeyrac replies, as if this makes perfect sense. He’s almost smiling.

"I got you something too," Grantaire tells him, juggling the plant pot so he can pulls a razor out of his back pocket. He’d found it in the bathroom of the house with the attic.

Courfeyrac blinks, and looks down at the razor, then back up at Grantaire - and a grin of absolute delight breaks out across his face. “I don’t know whether to be offended or flattered,” he says.

"I feel like it should be the latter, I’ve seen your cheekbones," Grantaire replies. "You know, behind the matted hair and scruff."

Courfeyrac snorts softly. “Right.”

Grantaire shifts the plant in his hands and then says, “I’ve got to—”

"I know," Courfeyrac replies, “You’ve been planning this for a while.”

“I — what?” Grantaire asks, weak.

“Finding the cherry wood didn’t just happen by chance. Or the wine. Or going to Notre Dame,” Courfeyrac says. “You’ve been trying to organise this for a while. I worked it out a few days ago but I didn’t - well, I wasn’t sure if you’d want to talk to me about it.” He says the words cautiously, testing the water.

Grantaire knows he has been violently, absurdly jealous of Courfeyrac recently. Of how easily Enjolras has accepted him, and the conversations the two of them have been having, which Grantaire has not been a part of. There’s just something in Courfeyrac, Grantaire can tell, that appeals to Enjolras. Some shared understanding of the world. They both seem optimistic, when they look around, and talk of ‘what if?’

“It was a secret,” Grantaire says, “I didn’t know if I’d be able to pull it off.”

“I’m pretty sure you can do anything, if you put your mind to it,” Courfeyrac replies. “Neither of us would have gotten this far without you.” When he says ‘us’, Grantaire knows he means Enjolras, and it makes him - well, he’s not sure how it makes him feel.

“Anyway,” says Courfeyrac, “I’m going to go use my Christmas present. There’s a broken mirror in one of the bedrooms. You should probably get back to Enjolras before he starts to freeze and declares war on the elements.”

Grantaire grins, and waits until Courfeyrac’s gone, before climbing back out of the window. It’s harder with the potted plant in his arms, not to mention the dangling pieces of glass, but he manages it, only dropping one of the decorations in the process.

Enjolras is still on the roof where he left him, looks up sharply when he hears Grantaire’s footsteps. His gaze then falls to the plant, and his mouth actually drops open.

"Merry Christmas," Grantaire says, and shoves the plant at him. "It’s a tree."

Enjolras looks like he has no idea what to do at all. In his hands he holds the house plant turned Christmas tree, his eyes wide. He doesn’t seem to be able to form words.

"I was going to get you a sword," says Grantaire, "It was in the attic of that other house. But I lost it."

"A sword?" Enjolras finds his voice, and looks up from the pseudo Christmas tree.

"Yeah," Grantaire replies, suddenly nervous. He sinks a hand into his hair, tugging on the strands to distract himself. "See, I had this idea. Well, this thought. Just. Guns won’t last forever, right? And you’re a practical person. And I thought. Well, a sword."

There’s a brief silence after his words, where Grantaire’s stomach sinks and he thinks Enjolras must be trying to word how to politely tell him it’s a crap idea.

"I don’t know how to use a sword," Enjolras says instead.

"That’s fine," Grantaire replies, "I can teach you. I mean. Could. Would have. If there was a sword. Which there’s not. So I guess I can’t really say that. What a stupid idea, I’ll just—"

He starts to get to his feet, is halted abruptly by a warm hand on his arm. Whenever Enjolras touches him, it’s usually out of anger or annoyance, to yell at him. But this - this isn’t.

Grantaire freezes and tries to remember how to breathe, as Enjolras looks up at him with those blue eyes and says, “I’d like that.”

"Oh," says Grantaire, on an exhaled breath.

Enjolras looks down again at the Christmas tree, and then puts it carefully on the roof, angled so it won’t fall. He uses the hand on Grantaire’s arm to pull him back down, tugging so they end up sat closer than before, their sides pressed together.

Enjolras is warm, and Grantaire’s heart does something funny.

"Merry Christmas," Enjolras says, his voice soft.

Grantaire looks out across the city spread out below them and replies, “Merry Christmas.”

**Author's Note:**

> As my beta, [defractum](http://defractum.tumblr.com/), has said, this is possibly the most morose Christmas fic ever. I'm totally not nervous about posting this, really. (I am.)
> 
> In this universe, Courfeyrac's looks are based on Sebastian Stan. That includes his long, stringy hair and stubble from _The Winter Soldier_ , which he is sporting during this fic. Cherry wood Yule logs are a tradition in France, according to [this](http://www.whychristmas.com/cultures/france.shtml) website. I haven't ever been to Rouen, which is probably very obvious. 
> 
> Merry Christmas - or whatever you happen to celebrate!


End file.
